The Back Room
by decayless
Summary: Sherlock and John are working on a case in the back room, strictly case business of course. IN PROGRESS


The light crept in through the gap in the curtains, illuminating the sitting room in a faint violet glow that meant it was the early hours of the morning. Bright shafts beamed through, revealing the contents of the room for the first time since the power went out. Beer bottles lay strewn across a dusty orange carpet, some smashed, all drained to the last drop. The remains of a makeshift fire lay in the furthest corner, ashes and cigarette buds smothered to a halt by a dish rag. The impromptu BBQ had ended in a hurry, a half cooked hot dog lay on top cradled by a large amount of cans. All of the rubbish from the party had been kicked into the corner to make room for something, a murder evidentially, but that wasn't the original decision. The door lay ajar, and the room was cold. The walls were smoke stained, and the window had been opened to try and get some air in. But the alabaster curtains were pulled over, quick and carelessly. A gap remained between the glass and the folds of the fabric, and the curtain was hanging loosely off the rail. So they had come in, shooed others out. Desperate enough to clear the floor space and conceal themselves from the view of the window, but not enough time to clean the floor or properly shut the curtains. Nail marks on the window ledge- sharp and new.

The poor girl was in the morgue, bullet in her brain. No idea where she'd been for the last few hours. Brutal markings on the arms and shoulders, and the only clue was ill fitting clothing present on the body and a faint text saying that the girl was going to "Going to a party at a friend's". But this was the student centre of London, with countless parties and countless faint friends. Yes, the timing and the dust and the ragged curtains. It all pointed in one direction, they just needed sufficient evidence. That's why, when Doctor John Watson finally caught up, he found his flatmate in the backroom dry humping the floor of the crime scene.

"Sherlock!" He cried, half torn between amusement and embarrassment. "Ahh John, good." Sherlock cried, jumping up in one swift movement, swirling the grey fabric of his coat around him. There was no hint of humiliation from Sherlock, despite what he had been doing. Just the distant brilliant look in his eyes that meant he was on a case. Sherlock grabbed his flatmate by the elbow of his coat, dragging him away from the threshold. "Get on the floor john, right here." He muttered, ignoring John's stammers of what's and why's. John was pressed against the harsh material of the rug now, blushing crimson red as Sherlock clambered on top of him, his high cheekbones absent from whatever John was feeling.

The bewildered look in John's eyes meant Sherlock had to explain himself. How trivial, explaining was a waste of time, explaining was an obstacle- inevitable and best to be dealt with early on. "The girl, the dead girl, she was here. Went to this party before she died. Signs point to this room, the curtains are drawn and the bottles are cleared. I need you to lie on the floor, so I can see if it makes sense. You're small, same size as her. I need to see if there's enough space John- stay here." Sherlock said, all at once not stopping for breathe as his mind calculated all the time he had just wasted.

John sort of understood it, he was about to question it more when Sherlock ran one hand down his back, slow and contained, stopping his train of thought. A quick shift of weight and Sherlock's hips were centred with John's. Sherlock began thrusting again, deliberately making sure not to come into contact with John. His breath hitched, as he ran his pale hands down the sleeves of John's jacket, "Yes, they were here." He breathed, as his finger nails came into contact with existing nail marks in the rug. "What can you see John?" He muttered, opening his eyes for the first time to meet his friends gaze. John visibly cringed. From where he lay, he was in the perfect position to admire Sherlock's neck, an endless stretch of ivory skin, framed with black curls. If he concentrated, he could feel the heat from the man on top of him- even through the layers of expensive suit and small expanse of distance between them. John wondered how to answer the question, averting is gaze the carpet around him. He could see Sherlock's hands still firmly pressed into the rug, the tension in his arms as he kept himself suspended. John could smell the musk of his friends skin, and if he really concentrated- pretended for a moment to be as observational as his friend, he swore he could smell the unmistakeable scent of sex. All of the evidence pieced together, admittedly much slower than the consulting detective would have got it. But John still smiled out of pride, as he answered- "She slept with someone?"

"Precisely." Sherlock said, leaning in closer. "A man was in my position; she was forwards slightly, hands gripping the window ledge. No signs of struggle, she obviously agreed to sleep with him. And they could be seen, through the window. The murder, most likely an ex saw his girl sleeping with someone else. Shot a single bullet through the open window, went to hit the man but hit the girl instead. The man fled, couldn't be seen with a dead girl, he'd been in trouble with the law previously, and any other police man would presume it was rape. So we have two suspects, the murderer and the witness. Body was found in a neighbours skip, so the murder must've been local the angle of the window, to get a clear view of what they were doing-" He cleared his throat, not daring to move, eyes darting around the room, "There's only one window with this view, and it's the house across the street. We have our killer."

Sherlock spoke in his usual way, too fast, he always thought too fast, voice dark and cutting and genius in every way. "Brilliant." John replied, ever in awe. John was lying, back pressed against the carpet. Sherlock's hands were still replicating the witnesses, pinning John down. They both laughed, and there chuckles bounced across the wall. Laughter is such a wonderful creation, bodies jerking uncontrollably because there mind physically can't contain that much joy. An annoyed voice pierced through the laughter, "Found the freak." Donovan called down the corridor, as footsteps echoed behind her. She raised her eyebrow at the compromising position, "I don't know if he's solved it, the freak seemed too busy with Watson." It was only then, when the two men realised that John was still pinned to the floor, and Sherlock was still towering over him. Sherlock glided up, examining the curtains for the 16th time. John stood up, much slower straightening his jacket before adding, "He needed help with the case."


End file.
